


The Motive of A Hobbit

by twowritehands



Series: Bilbo/Thorin [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Thorin is a deep well, stuff happened in that hole that you know nothing of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh,” Bilbo wanted more than ever to escape and tried to wring his hand from the dwarf’s grip.<br/>“No,” Thorin said and gave the hobbit a tug, which brought him right back near the prince. “Stay in here with me. I have a lot of questions for you, burglar.”</p><p>Something happened that last night in the Shire to make Bilbo decide to risk being eaten alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Motive of A Hobbit

A velvety mixture of Dwarves’ baritone filled the hobbit’s home, seeming to make the walls resonate. Thorin’s sad lyrics about his home burning drew Bilbo from his ire, made him find a place away from the others and sit, listening with his skin raised in peeks, small hairs on end, his heart breaking for probably the first real time in his life.

Never before in Bilbo's quaint, comfortable existence had he considered someone leaving home because there was literally no other choice for them; if ever he did ponder about going away, he always thought of it as just going away, of being able to come back whenever he wanted. He never considered Home simply not being there, not waiting for him until he got back.

When the song ended, the whole house paused in a moment of reflection and then Gandalf carefully broke the silence with a suggestion to Kili to sing something lively. There were a few beats more as everyone worked to take their minds from the melancholy and steer themselves into something more light hearted and fun. Then, with a loud throat clear, the young dwarf started in with a merry, silly old tune.

Still paralyzed by the ringing emotions and deep thought provoked by the sad, slow song, Bilbo sat in the dark leaning on his bedpost, his spirit not joining in on the carefree new direction of the music. He didn’t even hear the heavy footfalls getting closer until Thorin’s hulking figure filled the doorway, and then slipped inside.

For a moment, Bilbo floundered about what to say--he felt the compulsion to give condolences, to comfort, to let the dwarf prince know how truly sorry he, Bilbo, was that a dragon had to have chosen the Lonely Mountain for his plunder. But before he could think of where to begin, the dwarf was shutting the door, closing off the last source of light and plunging them both in complete darkness.

Bilbo stood, opening his mouth to ask questions--but then there were fast footsteps and a sob followed by a sniffle--and Bilbo realized that Thorin was crying and walking right at him and then in the very next moment, Bilbo was hit by a moving wall; Thorin had walked right into him.

They both cried out in surprise--Thorin more so than Bilbo--and only then did Bilbo realize that Thorin hadn’t known he had company in the room when he’d closed the door. Reacting on a warrior’s instinct, the dwarf seized what was, in his mind, an intruder and held him hard and fast in a grip like the metal his kind so faithfully twisted out of the earth.

“It’s me!” Bilbo hurried to explain, “It’s me, it’s me! Bilbo Baggins!”

Thorin’s grip fell away and so did the proximity of his muscled, fur-laden body. There was a sniff, “Oh. I am sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” Bilbo said instantly, always the humble and obliging host in uncomfortbale situations, “I should have spoken up when you first came in, but I thought you saw me.”

“Well, I--“

“You didn’t. I know. It’s okay. I’ll just go, then.” With a long side step, Bilbo made to get out of Thorin’s way and head for the door, but a thick, calloused hand closed on his wrist.

“But what were _you_ doing here in the dark?”

“I was…” Bilbo couldn’t come up with an answer so finally finished with, “I was thinking.”

“What about?”

“Your song,” the truth came out without hesitation and just like that, Bilbo found himself talking about it, “It’s by far the most beautiful and heartbreaking thing I think I’ve ever heard. You have a lovely voice. It’s a shame…” his voice faltered when he realized he was saying all of this out loud and he cleared his throat and continued awkwardly, “It’s a shame that you only have such a dreadful past to sing about.”

“My past if not only filled with dread, hobbit,” Thorin replied sharply, offended. “I have lived my life the best I know how. I do see the good--and enjoy it--when I have it in reach.”

“Oh,” Bilbo wanted more than ever to escape and tried to wring his hand from the dwarf’s grip.

“No,” Thorin said and gave the hobbit a tug, which brought him right back near the prince. “Stay in here with me. I have a lot of questions for you, burglar.”

“Is that right?” Bilbo asked, desperately trying to pretend that he wasn’t uncomfortable about being trapped in the dark with an adventurer, trying to--he had no idea _why_ \--pretend like he actually WAS a burglar. “Well, let’s hear them.”

 “Why do you live alone?”

Not expecting that in the least--he'd thought there would be a demand for credentials, references, that sort of thing--Bilbo gaped into the darkness for a moment and then answered, “I just do ever since I lost my parents.”

“There is no one special you’ll be leaving behind when you join us?”

“No--and, sorry, but does this mean you’ll let me have the job?”

He could hear the smile in Thorin’s deep voice, “I take it, then, that you _do_ want to join us.”

“Well…” he began before he could think of how to explain that he didn’t really want to go, he just wanted to be considered for the job as a kind of peaceful, unobtrusive, safe way of having the adventure. It’d be nice, he thought, to know that he _could_ , if he chose, venture out into the world. To know that he could be up for it, that experts thought he had it in him.

Bilbo was sure he could be satisfied just knowing that some real hardened world travelers had vouched for his abilities as a dragon-fighting burglar; there was no need to actually leave the comfort of home and be burned to a crisp.

But before he could even begin to say any of that, he was crowded back up against the bedpost and, though he couldn’t see anything, he was acutely aware that Thorin’s mouth was very near his.

“As I traveled here, I hated these soft little hills of your home because they are boring and the people in them looked at me like I was not welcome. But then I stepped through your door.” He laughed, “What is it about you, Baggins? You go around with your chest out declaring you’re too good for my mission yet I am delighted by you. And _even now_ , when I cannot see the kindness in your eyes, I am charmed.”

Bilbo blinked, never so aware of his eyes or so curious about them. Where was a mirror? And the notion that Thorin Oakenshield was charmed by Bilbo came as a shock, considering that all the dwarf ever did was scowl at him. If that was charmed, he'd hate to see irritated.

Then all at once Thorin’s mouth was pressing--not urgent or forceful and nothing like shy or delicate--to Bilbo’s. The hobbit acted on instinct and pressed back and opened up when a tongue touched his bottom lip. Thorin’s kiss deepened in a rush like the surge of fertile, moist dirt from a wall cave-in.

Thorin’s big, hard hands caged Bilbo’s ribs, slipped under his arms and up the hobbit went an inch or two off the floor. He was pressed to the bedpost and Thorin pressed to him. He could still touch most of his feet to the ground just by turning his ankles down, but it didn’t lessen the rush of it; he hadn’t been picked up since he was a child. Curious how much he didn’t know he could miss something until he was reminded of it.

And the _kiss_ …

It was a kiss unlike any kiss the hobbit had ever kissed. His experiences were turned into bashful and chaste events compared to this. This was better than he had ever even dreamed of. There was the woody taste of a pipe--delicious and musky, and the soft brush of beard on his chin. And it was a breathless feeling, his feet hanging as free and unfettered as his heartbeat, being held up by a strength that at the moment seemed to be ten times his own.

Thorin’s tongue touched the roof of Bilbo’s mouth and when it left, it did so with a playfully seductive twist which enticed Bilbo’s tongue to follow it home and the hobbit found himself licking into that smoky taste and becoming briefly familiar with the backside of a dwarf’s incisors.

“Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf’s voice called through the house, “Where the devil have you hidden yourself?”

Bilbo plopped back down on his feet and Thorin stepped away. A moment later, the door was open and the light from the other rooms fell right over the hobbit. Gandalf, down the hall, saw him then and put his hands on his hips, “The lads are getting tired. Where do you keep your spare linens, my friend?”

“Ah,” Bilbo’s excitement and alarm were fading upon realizing that the wizard could not see Thorin who stood behind the door he had opened. The wizard wasn’t even curious about how the door had opened from within with Bilbo out of its reach, being too distracted by the chandelier that he had, once again, knocked his forehead on.

“Go,” Thorin’s voice was kind and soft enough that only Bilbo heard it. He hesitated, attempting to discern the dwarf’s expression, half in light as it was. But it was no use. His beard and hair hid what the darkness did not.

Someone--no idea who--called triumphantly through the house “FOUND ‘EM!” and a moment later there was a tremendous shattering of glass.

And that was when Bilbo remembered that he had squirreled away, in the spare sheets, a very fine vase of his mother’s in an attempt to keep his pilfering cousin from walking away with it the last time she visited. He’d forgotten it there and now it was in pieces and someone was laughing loudly and hoarsely about it.

With a cry of outrage, Bilbo stormed from the room, putting--for now--the dwarf prince and his lustrous, intoxicating kiss from his mind.

[]

The next morning, after creeping around his own house and gleefully discovering that the band of dwarves had gone (and that he was blissfully free of the fate of being eaten alive), it wasn’t until his eye fell on the contract, left behind and signed by the prince, that he remembered what had transpired between them.

Fuzzy, half-forgotten dreams from the night came to him, then. He'd dreamt of more kisses... and less clothes... He'd dreamt of heavy, calloused hands wrapping around the tender backs of his knees... he'd dreamt of the warmth he would find by sliding his hands up a strong back under that long hair to feel strong broad shoulders under his palms...

That kiss (and what it promised in those dreams) was by far the best, most invigorating, most satisfying thing to ever happen to Bilbo. And it was, at present, riding away and into a dragon’s den never, ever, to return to the Shire even if it didn’t get itself roasted to the bone first.

And just like that, his decision was made. Bilbo was off on a most unexpected journey.


End file.
